When The Music Fades
by kamikumai
Summary: Harry ponders the concept of limmerance. Slash: HarryDraco.


**Word from the Author: **This is another fairly old piece, not as old as the other, I admit. But still, like I said, fairly. No idea where this idea popped up from, my mind is an odd, odd place to be, believe me. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it! And if you would, do let me know what you thought!

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill people. Not mine.

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**When The Music Fades **

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It is said that within the first few years of a relationship, the parties involved are living in blissful 'limmerance'. Yes, limmerance, I learnt this word while reading something Hermione had given me to 'learn about the socio-anthropological interactions with regard to the romantic relationship,' as she put it; I discovered that limmerance refers to, and I quote, "the early state of being in love, in lust, or both, when two people see each other as perfect."

To be as perfect for you as I possibly could, I read her books, studied them, analyzed them, aimed to draw contrasts and comparisons between that which was being said in these purely intellectual texts and with what we have. And you know what?

It didn't work in the least. Perhaps due to the fact that we are, and forever will be, at least in my humble opinion concerning this matter, somewhat an odd couple, to put it mildly. The fact of the matter is, the two of us, we're just so very different, not to mention both so very male. Feel free to read quite stubborn, as Hermione so frequently insists on informing me, not that she herself does not possess this same manly trait... Not that I would ever tell her that to her face, I highly value my bits, as I know you do. But anyway, I doubt we have ever seen each other as perfect.

Except, of course, there is the metaphorical sense of the word perfect, that I often tend to use in order to express my undying love for you. I lie about your perfection, but then again, to me it is also truth, a paradox, if you wish, in so much as that though you are not perfect, what you are, however, is perfectly enough for me. More than, I might venture.

On the other hand, I know you think me perfect. In a totally sarcastic, scathingly cutting 'Gryffindor Golden Boy' sort of way, and despite all this, though really I should probably more accurately say, because of it, you love me; you love me as who I am. I'm not perfect. You know it; I know it. At times, I do rather wish the Wizarding World knew it... but as you would say when I get woeful like this about the Wizarding World's false belief and idle worship of a saviour who is nowhere near perfect, as you quite frequently seem to actually enjoy pointing out, Mr. Cranky Green Leather Pants, "Sod it."

See, this just proves how much I've grown because of your wise and magnificent tutelage, you arse.

But back to my point; this 'limmerance' of which they speak, they make it seem as though it as an absolute, no questions asked, it's just part and parcel of the whole relationship thing.

And what I am about to say seems to only further prove your influence upon me... What a load of psychological Muggle bullshit!

It's been how many years now, Draco, that the blissful youthfulness of love has overpowered us, and driven us wild over and over and over with passion and desire; that this so called perfection has remained with us? Every single day, I wake up loving you more than I did its predecessor, knowing that my love will only abound, and grow more with time. Where is this finite limmerance they speak of?

Even though some seem to believe that it is inevitable that we, the human race, shall succumb to this concept of infatuation being the origin of all relationships… I can't help but disagree. For me, as a child, my myths and my dreams, the latter literally, if you remember how I told you of Siri's flying motorcycle, turned out to be my reality. I'm a wizard, a real magical, wand waving, potion making, robe wearing wizard! Though mind you, I don't have any 'witches hats,' which I'm sure you think odd given my supposedly abysmal fashion sense, right love?

All in all, if such a fantastical notion as magical personages can be reality, at least for some, then all in all is it not also logical that these hard cold facts Muggles speak of can be fallacies, for others? After all, magic does seem to rather defy most 'natural laws,' as they term them.

I smile at myself, indulgently. And shake my head at my incessant mental spiel.

You see, love, this is what happens when you're not in this realm with me, drawing my attention from 'being a homicidal maniac who has no qualms about killing of all my preciously scarce brain cells,' though I seem to recall you going on to say that using the plural of brain cell for the majority of Gryffindors was a bit of a stretch, logistically.

But at this present time, you are far, far away. Drifting in the land of slumber, while I stay awake, watching you, as your eye twitches in dreaming, and your delicate brows furrow as if, even in sleep, you contemplate philosophy and ethics, perhaps even great debates of wit. That or you're probably thinking of the most efficient way to get me naked. Not that I'm complaining.

I feel a thrum of pleasure streak beneath my skin at the way your delicious mouth pouts and opens, and how your sharp but silky tongue tentatively sweeps across your lips. I lean forward to give you that which you seek. When you smile contentedly at having gotten your way, spoiled-rotten brat that you are, I begin to move away slightly, but you do as you always do when this happens - you mewl adorably because your 'Snuggle-Harry' isn't within proper proximity, and is as such too far out of reach for your liking.

The violins, the orchestra creating songs that epitomize all that limmerance holds true, perhaps, they no longer play such sweet melodies for us, you and I. Yet, lying here, close to you, even when the music fades, and all that we are and purport to be is stripped away, in the silence that ensues, do you know what I hear?

I hear your heart, beating strong and steady against my cheek, as I rest my head upon your chest. I am still, and perfection is the quiet peace, and tranquility that I find in your arms.

I close my eyes, and let myself fall prey to the sleep encroaching webs, at peace with the conclusion I have reached.

Who needs limmerance, when I have you?

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Finis.

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End file.
